


'Tis safer to be that which we destroy

by ghostofgatsby



Series: I'd kill for you. I'd die for you. I'd live for you. [20]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Arguing, Coping, Drinking, Gen, Golems, M/M, Magic, Minor Violence, Multi, Smoking, Urban Magic Yogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: “Who the fuck are you?” Sips asks, looking frantically around himself for an exit. He’s being penned in.Slowly, two, three, four humanoid figures rise up- gray golem-like forms made from the ground beneath his dress shoes. The figures are silent as they shuffle closer. Their arms reach for Sips robotically. He can’t pull away when hands wrap around his forearm, his shoulder, his wrist.“Hey, let go! Fuck off!” He starts to struggle, and the figures’ grips tighten painfully.Another concrete hand reaches for Sips, but before it can touch him, the bond erupts.





	

**Author's Note:**

> “Nought’s had, all’s spent,  
> Where our desire is got without content:  
> ‘Tis safer to be that which we destroy  
> Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.”  
> (Macbeth. Act 3. Scene 2.)
> 
> cw: minor violence/injury; mention of gun/gunshot wounds/attempted murder/viscera/actual murder/blood; arguing; smoking; drinking; talk about death and personal sacrifice (not the ritual kind); minor depressive mood  
> the fae tailors are kind of like the boilermaker yokai in Spirited Away.  
> If I need to tag something else, let me know.
> 
> Many thanks to Nate for betaing!
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2016/10/31/tis-safer-to-be-that-which-we-destroy-ghostofgatsby/

Sips squints in the shitty glow of the overhead bathroom lights as he washes his face clean of shaving cream. He dries off and stares back at himself in the mirror over the sink. He’s had a permanent five o’clock shadow since he turned twenty one, but unlike Trott, he didn’t have to continually shave to avoid a patchy scrub-brush look. An occasional trim helps refine it. He’s a man of simple tastes.

The mortal king rubs a hand across his jawline, feeling the scratch of thin stubble. He leans away from the sink and glances down at his naked torso. The scar on his shoulder is as stark white and jagged as ever. The gunshot wound from this spring is like the mirror-reverse of Trott's scar under his shoulder blade.

Sips traces across the stitch-line with his fingertips. The scar doesn’t scare him as much as it should. But he remembers the looks on the faces of his court, leaving the hospital, and riding home in the back of Smith’s car. He remembers watching through a medicated haze as Ross folded bloodstained beach towels. He felt like he blinked and then they were home, thirty minutes drive lost in a breath, and he laid in bed and slept for ages. When Sips didn’t have the energy for his usual humor, seeing his court’s worried, angered expressions was the worst. He couldn’t really reassure them when he _had_ nearly died, after all. It bothered him, but more than anything it just made him feel old and tired. If they were human, he’d be older. Time waits for no mortal man, not even for himself.

Sips raises his hand to rub at his wrinkled forehead and sighs. The bathroom tap is leaking again. Water drops plink into the sink basin, and Sips smiles wryly at the shittiness. He flicks the bathroom lights off and walks back into the bedroom to finish getting ready for work.

The bedside alarm clock flashes too early for a Monday. The birds whistle and chirp just outside the window. Sips stands in the morning’s darkness for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his court’s chests. It was a strange habit he picked up on mornings like this- pausing in his routine just to make sure they were still there. Still alive.

Sips catches a murmur of something from Smith, and listens intently for a few moments. Smith’s breath evens out again and Sips sighs to himself.

Smith had started whispering in his sleep. Inaudible murmurs of sentences, and apologies. Sometimes it woke Sips up. Smith’s lips would be at his ear, different languages- English and what he guessed was water fae- slurring together.

“I’m sorry,” Smith would say, and Sips would just shush him sadly and try to will them both back to a better sleep.

Trott’s foot twitches in the sheets, and it draws Sips’ eyes from Smith to him. He’s dreaming, likely. Trott was up before Sips most of the week. His nightmares were things he'd dealt with for all his life- it was as common as the cup of earl grey tea he drank in the mornings. But with Sips around, it hadn’t happened in years- until his trip to hell had revitalized his memories and twisted them into his worst fears.

Sips didn’t know how to help, when Trott’s nightmares got bad again. It was even more common in the height of summer, when there were storms overnight. He didn’t know what to say, but he kept Trott company in the kitchen sometimes, like he’d always done, drinking ice cold tea at two am to cool down, because the A/C was on the fritz.

When the nights were the worst, it was Ross who didn’t sleep. Not because of nightmares- Ross didn’t dream, but subconsciously he seemed to know when Smith or Trott were stuck in unseen terrors. He’d rouse from his weird meditative sleep-state, wake them and hush them back to a more peaceful rest. Sometimes Sips would wake briefly to find Ross watching them all. Years ago this would have creeped him out, but now it was a comfort. Like the hold of Ross’ glass tail wrapped around his leg.

Sips didn't tell his court that _he_ had dreams, too, after the events earlier in spring. He didn't remember dreams like the others did, but the ones that stood out were always of him staring up from the bottom of the pool, watching the water stain red. His court would be shouting for him, and he couldn't understand them or tell them it was alright. Smith would dive under, looking frantic, shaking him by the shoulders, but nothing would happen. Sips just stared back.

When Sips would wake up, he'd need a big cup of coffee to feel alive and kicking. It was waking up that bothered him more than the dreams themselves. It wasn’t really scary so much that it was unsettling- he knew, sooner rather than later, that his court would react to the situation again, no matter how fake it was now. He just wouldn’t be around to see it. It was inevitable. Reassurance otherwise seemed pointless.

Sips dresses for work in a suit and tie. It’s the only armor he’s ever had, but it’s good enough. It’s all he ever thought he needed, until some fuck with a gun tried to take him out. When his court solved who had put the hit out on him, they came home covered in blood and viscera. They marched past him in the living room and went straight to clean up, and Sips just stared silently after them.

Sometimes he forgot they killed people. They didn’t hide it, but he didn’t notice it that often, either. Smith was, had been, the only one who was obvious about his...acquisitions. Ross would only kill to protect the others, and Trott, well. Trott was complicated. Sips didn’t hear about Trott killing people until long after he did- the selkie kept a lot of secrets to himself, even after all these years.

Sips sighs again and cautiously sits down on the edge of the bed to put his socks on. He covers up pink and yellow ombre painted toenails with a sly smile. He had dragged Trott with him to the spa to de-stress, because fuck knows Trott needed it these days.

Sips could feel the stress creeping up on them all, eating away at their resolves. They’d all done so much for him. More than they knew, really. For all the dedication and love he gives, he doesn't know quite yet how to keep them safe. He's human- what can he do, to keep fae safe? He’s seen how dangerous they can be. He’s seen the power and the vulnerability in each; he probably sees them as stronger than they see themselves. Stronger than he is or ever will be, that’s for damn sure.

Other fae see Sips as a point of weakness, because Sips is human. Some days, Sips thinks they’re right- he’s a big fuckin’ weakness; a bullseye on the backs of his court. But fuck, he’s not important. He’s never been, in the grand scheme of things. And this whole world is full of magic and things he cannot begin to understand.

Sips only knows human things for the most part. He was taught bits and bobs here and there about the magical world by Xeph, Dew, and Turps. He knows he can rely on his court to keep him safe...but that’s what bothers him the most about being king. He doesn’t want to put their lives at risk for the sake of his.

Who is he but a human, anyway?

Sips unearths his dress shoes one at a time from under the bed. He puts them on, and takes one last look at his sleeping court. They’re wrapped up in each other, sleeping deeply and peacefully.

Sips smiles. He takes his baseball hat crown off the bedroom doorknob on his way out, fitting it on his head as he pulls the door shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

Trott sits at his desk at the shop, looking over income and finances of the Garbage Court’s many business acquisitions. After getting back from their trip, there were rounds to be made, and shops to check up on.

Over time, the land they had acquired through parties and rituals- warehouses and old foreclosed buildings- were converted into what the people in the neighborhood needed. Five and dime shops, kids’ after-school programs, grocers, laundromats, cheap taverns. Anything the Garbage Court informants could glean from the public about what they would need was built on their land. Sips, once he became king, provided the big funds, donating human money to projects and overseeing their development under Trott’s decisions. Trott would insert the fae and magical populace who paid their dues to the GC, and those people would take up work as shop owners and landlords in exchange for their hospitality.

The network of magic was what gave the court standing power. Magical contracts, debts, and bonds ran through this city like blood. With all that had happened in the past few months- Sips getting shot, Smith getting sick- the flow of magic was starting to run thin. Trott needed that magic to dictate the ins and outs of the court’s territory, and he just hoped what he spent it on would prove worth it. It better be.

He fingers receipts and scans down his list of shipments. The package he recently commissioned was ready for pickup, but there are other things at the shop that require his attention.

Trott sighs, and picks up the phone to call Smith.

 

* * *

 

Smith rouses from his post-sex daze at the sound of his cell phone buzzing. "Ross, gimme my phone, will you?"

Ross picks up Smith's pants off the floor with his tail, and throws them over Smith's face.

"Thanks, Ross."

Ross hums and leans his head on Smith's chest again.

Smith fishes his phone out of his pocket, quickly answering before the call goes to voicemail. "Hello?"

"Hey sunshine. How's it going?" Trott greets amicably.

"Good," Smith murmurs, eyes half lidded, "Ross just pounded me into the mattress."

Trott snorts. "Did you enjoy yourself, then?"

"Mmmhmm..." He ran his fingers through Ross' hair with his free hand. "Need some of that yourself, Trotty? Some sexual healing for all that nine-to-five scheming and dealing?"

Smith could hear the smile in Trott’s voice. "Maybe later. If you can walk, clean up and come by the shop. I have some errands for you two to run."

"Oh _boy!_ _Errands_ , my favorite." Smith snickers at Trott's exasperated sigh.

"Just be over here in half an hour, alright?" the selkie replies affectionately, "Get this done, and we can do other things tonight."

"Mm, like what?"

"You'll see, if you come to the shop," he teases.

Smith chuckles. "Sure thing, Trott. See you soon." He hangs up and yawns, pushing Ross' head off his chest. "Up and at 'em, Ross. The boss has work for us to do."

"Since when are you raring to go do things?" Ross mumbles, rolling off the bed and to his feet. Smith stretches out his limbs with a sigh. He tries to hold onto the enjoyment of time spent in bed with Ross, instead of feeling worried. Going out doesn’t interest him, not when it tests his self control. But Trott needs him for something, and the shop isn’t too far from home, either. Hopefully they can take the alleys and avoid most of the pedestrians altogether. There’s less of a chance of him charming someone, that way.

"Trott's got something planned, I guess,” he answers, idly shifting his legs in the sheets, stalling, “I’m just interested to see what it is."

Ross smiles knowingly at him, and helps Smith up out of bed. "Let’s shower, then we'll go." He kisses him sweetly with a sated smile.

 

* * *

 

“These are nice quality...” Smith comments, turning the wooden paddle in his hands. He, Trott, and Ross stand in the back storage room of Dirty Deeds. Shelves of products line three of the walls, with a loading dock door at the far end of the room, and a long worktable in the center. The faint music and chatter of customers can be heard coming from the open door to the shopfront.

Trott grins at Smith as he opens up the second box of handcrafted paddles. “They look nice. I haven't tested them yet.” He winks.

Chastity, one of the dryad sisters who works at the shop, peeks her head around the corner. Her green hair is pinned back with clips and bobby pins that have vibrant flowers attached to them. “Trott,” she calls, “there's a customer here asking about bondage gear from the new catalogs. Do you have a minute?”

Trott nods and gives a warning glance to Smith and Ross on his way out of the back room. “Don't fuck around with the merch.”

Ross absent-mindedly beatboxes as he examines piles of bondage gear on the worktable. There are configurations of straps and buckles in various shapes and sizes- harnesses to fit fae and human customers of all types.

Smith hefts the paddle in his hands with a cheeky grin, and sneaks up behind Ross to smack him in the ass. The handle of the paddle breaks, and Smith gapes down at the splintered wood in his hands.

Ross hardly notices. He pauses in his beatboxing with a frown and looks over his shoulder at Smith. “What the fuck did you just do?”

Smith gives him his trademark-patented "don't tell Trott" look, picks up the broken paddle pieces and shoves them back in the box, hidden. He tries to pretend he wasn't doing anything.

Trott comes back a few minutes later, dusting off his hands. “Alright...” He flips open a binder full of invoices near the door, and hands Smith a heavy manila envelope that jingles metallically like coins.

“Take this to the tailor on West and Albrecht,” he tells them the address and gives them both a stern look, "This is important, so be careful, and don't let this fall into the wrong hands. Don’t open anything that you give them or take from them. Understood?”

Smith and Ross nod solemnly, and Trott sends them off.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know who the fuck thought in their right mind that was a good idea,” Sips snorts, crumpling pickle-juice stained parchment paper into a ball. The sandwich shop tucked in the business district was one of his favorites to get lunch at. The kind, elderly waitresses who delivered their sandwiches and lemonades left them their peace fifteen minutes ago. And true to tradition, Turps hasn’t shut the fuck up since.

“Exactly! You deserve a drink, my friend, for the brilliant amount of bullshit you put up with on a daily basis.”

“Eh, I’ve been in this business for so long it doesn’t really faze me anymore.”

“True. You know, also, I don't profess to be a total badass, but...I totally could have helped out with that. I’m not your lovely, amazing assistant for nothing!” Turps laughs. Outside the shop, cars roar past, sending plumes of exhaust into the air.

Sips hums to himself and brushes the crumbs off his suit jacket. “Turps, I’ve got something else I need some help on- some questions I need answers to, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Cool by me- what do you want to know?”

The smiles wavers on Turps face when Sips leans across the table and hushes his voice. “I need to know about fae stuff, Turps. Like, what’s the need to know about fae in the city.”

“I thought I gave you that run down years ago.” Turps raises an eyebrow as Sips settles back in his seat. The dark green gingham-patterned plastic hisses through the cracks in the upholstery.

“Turps, you think I listen to half the shit that comes out of your mouth? I hired you to be my assistant so I don’t have to remember all that nonsense. And a lot has happened since then, as you very well know.” Sips tugs on the brim of his hat pointedly.

Turps gives a look around, wary of whoever their company is in the shop. Finding nothing amiss, he squeezes one of the rings off his fat middle finger, and plonks it down in the center of the table. A loud popping noise sounds in Sips’ ears, like he’s been encased in a bubble, and the background noise of the shop and the traffic outside muffles around them

“Alright then, Sipserino, lemme give you a crash course in fae 101.” Turps clears his throat and starts ticking off the list on his fingers. “Numero uno- fae barter and trade debts. Two- these debts can be as simple as a trade of cash for items, or souls for lives. Three- all debts are paid off over time. Four- the amount of time depends upon the kind of debt. Five- time means nothing to fae. Six- a life debt is a life's worth of service, and seven- there are always exceptions to a rule. Got it?”

Sips taps his fingers on the table top, frowning at the way his hand sticks to the surface. “If time means fuck-all, then why is that the currency?” he asks.

“It's a scam. More time, more contact, more debts. That's what makes fae so dangerous. But, number seven- there are always exceptions. Fae can be manipulated too.” Turps gives him a look.

“And all these courts, it's about power, and resources, and territory?” Sips gestures, watching the genie finish the last of his pickle spear.

“Right-o. Fae need humans to exist, in a way. It's how they control magic and monopolize. What they _don't_ want humans to know, is that _humans_ would survive just fine without _them_.”

“What about magical law enforcement, what's their goal? To keep the fae in line?”

A dangerous, stern expression crosses Turps' face.

“The MP aren't to be messed with lightly, Sips. Don't tell me your court has a problem with them?”

Sips says nothing.

Turps sighs and covers his eyes with his hand. “Fucking _hell_ , man. Let me guess, it’s the Head Inspector, too?” Sips nods, and Turps groans theatrically. “How’d you get yourself into this mess...”

“Why’s everyone so terrified of that angel guy, Turps?” Sips asks, “I don’t get it.”

“Because he’s _fallen_ ,” Turps states, “No one dares ask how he fell...but Angor certainly doesn’t forgo human vices. Think about it, you’re a god-believing sort-of person: beings like that are _supposed_ to be feared.”

Sips shakes his head. “Fear meaning in awe of, not terrified. That’s not the same thing. At least, it shouldn’t be.”

The genie lowers his hand from his face and nervously brushes crumbs off the table. “In any case, Sips, Angor is head of the department. He oversees any crime that deals with mortals and fae magic.”

“What else can you tell me about him?”

Turps shrugs. “That’s about all I can give you. That’s about all anyone knows. You _don’t_ want to cross him. If your fae have done something to get his attention, they’re in for it.”

“Come on, Turps, help me out here!” Sips groans, “There has to be some sort of weakness for this guy-”

“What, are you trying to take him out?” The genie hisses in disbelief.

Sips shrugs.

Turps eyes go wide. “Are you out of your _mind?_ Fucking _hell_ , mate! I’m not getting involved in that shit, nuh uh. No way.” He points a finger at Sips and shakes his head. “ _Don’t_ go getting yourself _killed!_ ”

“He can’t touch me if he doesn’t have charges against me.”

Turps makes a skeptical noise. “Just because he can’t charge you doesn’t mean he won’t do something. His divine power works a little differently than you might expect.”

Sips raises an eyebrow. “Enough to harm a king of fae?”

Turps looks around the room again and lowers his voice even further as he leans closer to Sips across the table.

“Look. Angor is a greedy, wrathful bastard. He builds a case against his target until the evidence is stacked against them, and then he unleashes every possible attack he can. And I’m not talking physical blows, man.” Turps purses his lips together, eyes and expression stern. “Divine power...can be psychic, in a way. Beings like archangels and demons can twist the mind and hinder the senses. Angor uses that to play with people- it’s psychological torture.” He inhales a shaky breath and lets it out again. The disappointment in his gaze is formidable.

Sips has never seen Turps this thrown with worry. He knows the genie has never dealt with Angor personally, but the guy who owned him previously had gotten in trouble with the MP for trafficking illegal magical supplies.

“Your water fae, they have charm, right?” Turps continues, “They have things that belong to them, like my own, that if it was taken, could control them. Right?”

Sips nods.

“Angor doesn’t _need_ that to get what he wants. He can’t make people do things out of their own free will, but he can make you _think_ you did. He can twist your mind until you _think_ you’ve stuck your hands into fire or drank some terrible poison. He can make you _think_ terrible things have happened when they haven’t. He can pull memories out of your mind and have you focus solely on them, until that’s the only thought you can imagine. Over, and over, and over.

“And with Angor being the _gatekeeper_ of the city, that also gives him the keys to a whole slew of dimensions. Those he interrogates, trials, and sentences, are subject to whatever personal hell he wants to send them to.”

Sips thinks of Trott and his sleepless nights after his hell-journey. “What kind of gate keys are we talking about?” he asks, “Like, is he the Keymaster to other planes of existence or some shit?”

“Sort of,” Turps sighs. The once jovial look on his face has morphed into one of tiredness and hesitancy. His hands are clasped together in front of him as he nervously twists the rings on his fingers. “This world isn’t the only one that exists. Obviously there’s a heaven and a hell, and they fluctuate with whatever those sent to it believe that looks like. But there are plenty of other dimensions of unspeakable horrors and mind-bending alternate realities. The fae king of the city is the one who generally keeps the keys, because no normal mortal should be in charge of something like that. You aren’t supposed to bring people back from the dead, or take beings from one world and put them in another unless you get the Sidhe Lord’s personal decree. Summonings and necromancy break magical law for that reason. And any planar travelling requires MP approval.”

Sips leans back in his seat again, taking all the information in. “So if he works for the city...then how buddy-buddy is he with Mr. Big Bad Antler Man?”

“Mr. Who?”

“Thunder Bambi...Horned Lightning?”

Turps blinks back, face blank.

“The Sidhe bastard, Turps!” Sips hisses.

“ _Ohhhh_. Right. Well...” Turps chuckles nervously. “I mean, I wouldn't say they're friends, but they’re certainly not enemies. Business associates, I guess? Angor sort of works for him, since he's head inspector of the magical law enforcement branch. And the Sidhe Lord _has_ given him the job of being the gatekeeper. I’m not sure how often they interact. The Sidhe Lord pulls strings, but he takes a backseat on all this actual law and order.”

Sips didn’t believe that, not with how his court talked about him. The horned bastard had wanted Trott and Smith under his thumb ever since they started gaining enough power to get noticed. He tried persuading Ross when the gargoyle joined the two of them, but after that, he took no interest. The horned bastard seemed to think others were a more worthy investment, by what Sips knew. Though he’d never met him personally, and neither had Turps.

Turps was a neutral fae, with ties only to the Garbage Court through Sips, but he didn’t meddle much in the world of magic anymore. The genie was more suited to schedule Sips’ business meetings than to be a high-class informant on the horned bastard’s plans. Sips wouldn’t volunteer him for that danger if he was interested. Not to mention Turps was horrible at the intimidation game.

Turps’ eyes dart around the sandwich shop, hiding his worry in careful observation. His shoulders are hunched inward as if he’s paranoid that someone’s going to sneak up on him. Eventually, he looks back at Sips and shakes his head.

“Look, mate, if there’s anything I can give you in way of advice, it’s this: Stay. Out of it. But, you’ve never been the type to agree to that...” He gives a sad sigh. “Angor values greed and retribution. He loves it when things work out wrong for other people.”  
Sips hums. “Then I guess he’s really going to love it when things go wrong for him, eh?”  
“Just _be careful_ , mate,” Turps says sternly, sighing through his teeth, “There’s no telling what he would want out of _you_.”

 

* * *

 

The tailor’s building is rather castle-like, built out of an old stone barracks, and just off the main shopping street in the Juror’s district. Humans pass it by, and to their eyes, it’s another hipster clothing boutique that's been closed. Smith and Ross know otherwise. The sign above the doorway is in a language neither of them can read, but they know by the address and Trott’s descriptions that they are at the right place.

The showroom floor inside is polished to a sheen. There are racks of fancy ballgowns, embroidered vestments, silk, leather, and other expensive fabrics. The stone walls are draped in colorful tapestries. In the medieval era, it used to be an armory, then a leatherworker's, and lastly, a tailor’s. The woman who runs the boutique part of the shop looks as old as the building, with long pointed nails, a wrinkly face, and gray hair spun up into a bun. She hobbles towards Smith and Ross when they walk in. She’s tall and thin, with a hunch in her back, and large round glasses with thick lenses.

Smith tries not to shudder when the glamour blinks away momentarily.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” she asks with a thick Eastern European accent, snapping teaberry-flavored gum between her slightly pointed teeth.

“Er, yeah. We’re here to pick up a package?” Smith hands her the envelope Trott had given him.

The old woman sniffs the envelope and shakes it gently. The coins inside jingle metallically. “Mmm...yes. _Pavouk_ _!_ ” she shouts towards the ajar door behind the counter, “You have the delivery for _mrož-muž_ complete, yes?”

“Yes, yes! I finished it last night,” an old male voice calls. The clicking of something can be heard past the door, but Smith and Ross can’t tell what it is.

“Then _bring it here, why don’t you!_ ” The old woman yells, hands on her hips.

“ _Ano, ano_ , I’ve got it! Just a minute.” They hear the sound of a chair pushing back, claws scraping the floor. “ _Ztřeštěný švadlena_...” the old man mutters.

He hobbles out with a cane and a brown paper-wrapped package, looking as old but even more wiry and hunched than the woman. He has a pointed gray beard, and beady, squinting eyes that peer at them with suspicion. Smith refrains from seeing past the glamour this time.

“Do you have it?” the woman asks.

“Yes, yes. Here.” The old man frowns, looking Smith and Ross up and down skeptically. He hands them the package with a gnarled, hairy hand, and the same long black nails as his...wife? Sister?

“ _Don’t._ Open this. Until you are off the streets. Is that clear?” she advises them.

Smith nods his pleasantries and glances over their shoulders in curiousity. The room the old man came from is too dark to make out what’s in it. The brown-paper wrapped package is soft in his hands. He can feel the magic inside it, weighty and full of heat. It’s tempting to see what it is when they get to the car- but Trott had given them explicit instructions not to open it, too. It must be for a good reason.

 

Smith shudders as they’re leaving, glad to be away from the seamstress and her tailorman. He and Ross return to the car, and Smith tries to keep his head down. If he spots someone on the street that he wants, will Ross be able to stop him? He doesn't want to find out. Ready to return to Trott, Smith moves to get into his car, but a slip of yellow-gold paper tucked under his windshield wipers makes him pause.

“Shit...” he yanks it out. His hand shakes as he flips it over and back.

Ross watches him read and reread the paper. “What is it?” He tries to catch a glimpse over Smith's shoulder at the words, but the kelpie crumples it in his fist.

“Just a _fucking_ parking ticket. _Fuck_.” He kicks his tire and runs a hand through his hair, breathing shakily.

Ross can see the fear in Smith’s eyes that quickly gets hidden into anger. He looks around. There's no meter or sign saying no parking here. “Are you sure?” he asks, curious.

“Don't worry about it.”

“Smith-”

“I said don’t worry about it, Ross!”

Smith's phone starts ringing.

Ross wonders, with a sense of foreboding, what "court summons" means.

“It’s Sips,” Smith says with a little happy smile, pulling out his phone from his pocket and answering. “‘Sup, motherfucker?” The shaky grin drops from his face and his eyes turn steely. “ _What?_ ”

 

* * *

 

Sips whistles as he walks back to his car in a nearby parking garage. Turps had left the sandwich shop on foot, off running some more errands for him, while Sips was heading back to SipsCo HQ. This level of the garage was strangely empty, but that suited him just fine. Less cars to scratch or dent his black company-assigned Mercedes Maybach.

He gets in the car and is just about to crank up the volume on his stereo when he realizes the car isn’t starting. Not a sound comes from the engine when he turns the key. And the stereo isn’t working, either.

"Aw, what the fuck?" Sips hisses, turning the key in the ignition harder, to no avail, "Fucking seriously? Dammit." He gets back out of the car, already thinking about having to call a tow because of a dead battery, and throws open the hood.

All at once, a surge of electricity sparks up from the engine. Sips leaps backwards in surprise as  lightning bolts arc through the air, zapping and crackling. “What the fuck!”

The bolts reach out and shock the concrete on either side of him. Slowly, two, three, four humanoid figures rise up- gray golem-like forms made from the ground beneath his dress shoes.

“Who the fuck are you?” Sips asks, looking frantically around himself for an exit. He’s being penned in. The engine continues to spark ominously.

The figures are silent as they shuffle closer. They look like identical concrete mannequins, and lack any distinct features save for black sigils on their foreheads.

Their arms reach for Sips robotically. They’re too close for him to avoid. He can’t pull away when hands wrap around his forearm, his shoulder, his wrist.

“Hey, let go! Fuck off!” He starts to struggle, and the figures’ grips tighten painfully. He cries out as concrete fingers squeeze hard enough to bruise- the pressure crushes him the harder he tries to resist their hold.

The scar in his left hand starts itching like crazy. A bubbling sensation fizzes across his palm and collects in an invisible sphere of swirling energy. His skin gets hotter and hotter.

Another concrete hand reaches for Sips, but before it can touch him, the bond erupts in a blaze of energy.

Long, powerful tendrils of purple-turquoise magic swirl around Sips. They lash out, one after another, whip-like. The magic cuts harshly through the fronts of the golems, separating their limbs from their torsos and rendering them immobile. Chunks of concrete clatter to the ground, kicking up clouds of dust into the air.

When the golems are reduced to rubble, the magic recoils and dissipates back into the scar in Sips’ palm. The heat fades away.

Sips looks from his hand to the remains of his attackers in shock, mouth agape. “What the fuck kind of lovecraftian eldritch horror was _that_...” He takes several long minutes to compose himself. It’s hard to breathe with all the dust in the air. His hands shake as he fumbles out his phone and calls Smith to come pick him up.

“ _Hey_ , Smiffy. Some weird fuckin’ golem things tried to attack me, and now I _might_ have a dead body issue I need help sorting out...” he jokes nervously.

“ _...What?_ ” Smith growls through the receiver.

“Or dead remains, I guess.” Sips pushes at a chunk of broken concrete with his shoe. “Not much left of ‘em, to be honest.” He gives Smith his address and talks to Ross when the kelpie hands the phone over. The parking garage is empty and silent as it had been before- but this time, Sips isn’t feeling so self-assured.

 

* * *

 

Trott flicks through the pictures of the aftermath on Sips' phone, shaking his head. “This was _sloppy_.”

“Sloppy? It’s still a fucking threat, and I want to gut the fucker who tried it,” Smith seethes. He leans over in his seat, bouncing his leg in agitation. He’s been restless ever since they arrived back at the shop with Sips. Now, the Garbage Court sit around the worktable in the back room of Dirty Deeds.

“Believe me, I know,” Trott grumbles darkly.

Ross frowns at the bruises forming on Sips' arm. “I’m glad you’re alright, Sips,” he says quietly.

Sips sucks at his cigarette, blowing smoke out in ashy gray plumes. After the golem things got destroyed, he decided to call off work for the rest of the day. He’s sure as fuck not dealing with business problems after this mess.

“I wouldn’t have been alright if it wasn’t for that weird purple-y magic whip,” he says, scrutinizing Trott’s posture. The selkie is obviously in some sort of pain, and he’s trying to hide it by favoring one arm over the other. Sips is about to ask about it when Ross speaks up again.

“These...golems. They weren’t like me, were they?” he asks.

Trott shakes his head. “No. They aren’t enchanted in the same way you are, Ross.”

 _Had they even been alive?_  Sips wonders, _They were animate._ But Sips didn’t define “living” and “nonliving” anymore, not after meeting his court. Science got thrown out the window when it came to magically enchanted gargoyles and fae creatures.

“Golemancy is a branch discipline of Thaumcraft,” Trott says. He hands Sips’ phone back and picks up one of the bigger chunks of concrete they’d collected from the scene.

Smith raises an eyebrow. “Thaumcraft? Isn't that what the sigil on my back was?”

“Part of it, yes. Different branch of discipline, though. Golemancy only does one thing, and works with materials more than essences. It’s closer to witchery in practice than thaumic brewing. And your sigil was a mix of the two.” Trott turns the piece of concrete in his grip, gritting his teeth and hiding pain in his eyes. “Fuck. There’s nothing for me to track here- the magical signature is gone completely.”

Smith growls. “Damn it...I knew I should have cased the place when we got there- I could have taken that car apart-”

“No, it was important that you got back here safely. Golems are hard to trace when they get obliterated, that’s all,” Trott mutters, “I’ll have to try some other things when we get home.” He looks up and meets Sips’ eyes. “Was there anything strange about your car, Sips? Before the engine sparked?”

“No, not that I could tell. There weren’t any other cars around, though.”

“But Turps was with you before lunch?”

Sips shakes his head. “He took a taxi to the shop. I arrived after.”

“This means you were followed...” Trott drops the concrete chunk back on the table, sighing through his teeth.

“Why send some fucking fish chum if they meant to hurt him, or kill him? I don’t get it.” Smith grumbles.

“Golems are empty shells. Puppets. They only have one goal in mind. Theirs must have been to capture- they wouldn’t have been so slow at subduing their mark, otherwise. And all of us would have felt it happen.”

Sips drops his cigarette butt to the floor and stubs it out with the heel of his dress shoe. Trott and Smith go back and forth, arguing over motive, and Sips tunes out. It doesn’t really matter who or why, does it? None of them have the answers right now. Sips frowns in concern, eyes tracking to where Trott’s holding his arm against his side, flexing his fingers with a pinched expression.

All of a sudden, Ross hunches inward on himself. His tail arches as he turns, eyes unfocused, staring in the direction of home.

“Something’s wrong,” Ross mumbles quietly, “The threshold of the apartment...something’s trying to get through.”

Trott and Smith share a dark look. They all watch as Ross slowly relaxes and stands up straight again. Anger brims in his eyes. “It stopped. I don’t know if they’re gone, but...”

“How bad is the damage?” Trott asks.

“I’m not sure...” His gaze is far away.

Trott nods and looks around at all of them. “We should go. Before it gets worse.”

Smith shoves himself out of his chair immediately, crossing the room to the loading dock door. Trott storms off to the front of the shop to let Crystal and Chastity know he was leaving.

Sips puts his hand on Ross’ shoulder and shakes him gently. “Hey- you with us?”

Ross blinks heavily and nods, slowly coming back to himself. “I haven’t had a pull that strong to my threshold since Smith entered the church.” He shakes his head and frowns. “Whatever’s attacking ours has to be strong...”

Smith hefts the garage door up, and Ross and Sips follow him out to his car packed in the back alley of Dirty Deeds. Trott joins them a few minutes later, and the Garbage Court take off towards their apartment.

 

* * *

 

Magical scorch marks are burnt along the foundation of the threshold. Ragged hairline cracks line the walls from the pavement up. They center on the door, and it takes Trott a few minutes to realize what they spiral out from- the electric wires. After doing a cursory look around the apartment building itself, and finding nothing amiss, Trott and Ross sidle up on either side of the door and open it slowly.

Trott slides his hand along the molding around the door frame. “Nothing got through, but it was close,” he informs his court. They all let out a collective sigh of relief.

"New rules," Trott murmurs as they shuffle inside and close the door, "Nobody leaves alone, and nobody comes back from work alone. At least one person stays at the apartment to keep the threshold steady until I can fix this. This doesn't bode well."

Ross runs a finger along the cracks.

"Ross, don't touch that!" Trott snaps.

Ross yanks his hand away. "Sorry..."

Trott sighs heavily and starts pacing the length of the living room.

“This sounds like a fucking set up. First Sips gets attacked, and then someone shreds our defenses,” Smith says.

“What would they want here? Did they think we were home?” Sips adjusts the hat on his head. He watches Trott pace, looking over the back of the couch from his customary seat.

Trott purses his lips. “I don’t think they wanted anything.”

Smith perches on one of the armrests of the couch and folds his arms across his chest. “Why fucking try to break in, then?”

“To weaken us.” Trott meets Smith’s eye. “Our threshold is directly influenced by the power from our parties. It’s been awhile since we’ve had one, and due to the leakage of magic last time...”

“Shit...” Smith turns away, hand clenching in his hair as he runs his fingers through. “That’s fucking _great. Fucking wonderful!_ ”

Ross frowns at the pangs of guilt and shame reverberating through Smith’s bond. He stands next to the door, drawn by some instinct to stay at the entrance, as protection.

Trott continues pacing angrily. “Every magical trade we made could negatively impact our power levels, which ties into our threshold. The gate to hell was magical trade; the recent commissions I’ve made were magical trades. I bartered power, too, this month. I should have seen this coming.”

Smith shakes his head and growls.

“Do you think it was the people from before, who tried to take Sips out?” Ross asks.

“Impossible. They’re all dead. I made sure of it.” Trott shakes his head at the magical cracks in their wall. “Fucking electrical lines...not many have the power to do that...”

“That horned bastard’s got to be involved somehow,” Smith mutters, “He’s had a problem with us since we started out.”

Ross sighs and makes himself move closer to Smith and Sips on the couch. "That's two electrical problems in one day."

"Bad things come in threes," Trott grumbles, "It's too much of a coincidence to not be related. But I don’t know.” There was no direct proof, as much as he hated to admit it.

Sips looks around at his court, pensive. “Thought you guys were just a nuisance to him.”

“It’s more complicated than that.” There’s a dark tone to Trott’s voice. “That bastard wants the city under his control, and we threaten his expansion. He grows stronger, but we gain more territory. We’re a threat.”

“What about Will? You don’t think it was him?” Ross sits down at Smith’s feet, and gladly offers up his tail for the kelpie to hold onto. Smith wraps his fingers around the glass ring tightly, grinding his teeth.

“I don’t know.” They hadn’t run into the kid since he arrived in the city. Did he have enough power and control to wreck their threshold, and get away before they got back? Whoever it was wasn’t powerful enough to break it- or chose not to. He didn’t recognize the magical signature on this. It was completely possible this was a test for the mage, a setup. But why was it so obviously done? Why threaten them now? What was this a warning of to come?

“I don’t know,” Trott says again. “But I’m sure as _fuck_ going to find out.” He stops pacing with a huff and glares at the fraying in their threshold. “Attacking our threshold and attacking Sips is a sign that they think we’re weakened. So now we have to be even more wary.”

“If it was the Sidhe bastard, why didn't he do this while we were camping?” Sips asks.

“Whoever did this wanted us to notice.”

“We would've fucking noticed then!” Smith snaps.

“They wanted us to be in the area. If this happened while we were camping, it would have taken hours for us to get back. Besides, they didn’t have the distraction of the attack on Sips.”

“You really think these two things are connected?”

Trott looks over at Sips. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

Sips shrugs. “I don’t know, Trott. I’m just putting that out there.”

Trott sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. He bends down near the door and removes the package Smith and Ross had gotten from his messenger bag.

“Here.” He moves closer to the couch and hands the package to Sips.

“What’s this?”

“For you. Open it and try it on. See how it fits.”

The brown paper-wrapped package is soft in Sips’ hands. He tears the paper off. Trott’s keeping his distance from them, still favoring one arm over the other. The other is held stiffly, like it pains him, but his face is impassive.

Inside the package is a suit jacket, pants, and a waistcoat. Sips knows it would have cost Trott a pretty penny to get. The fabric is fine quality- black with specks of silver dotted everywhere like stars.

“What is it?” Ross asks curiously, craning his neck to try to see.

“It's a new suit.”

“That's what's so dangerous that we had to protect?” Smith reaches out to touch the fabric and yelps, jerking his hand away. “That's fucking iron spun through it! Holy shit!” He shakes his hand and stares down at his fingertips, black-red but fading.

“It’s stitched with charms in the pockets, not to rust or tear, to wash up well, to look sharp, and stay uncreasable,” Trott informs, “It's impermeable to piercing damage from small objects, like arrows or bullets. And it has iron woven through it, so, yes, anyone who’s fae who gets too close will get burned.”

Sips whistles lowly. “Fancy...” He stops himself from asking, “You really think I need this?” because today pretty much proved that wrong. Again.

“Go and try it on. It should be tailored perfectly, but I want to see how it looks.” Trott smiles, but it’s pained.

“We can’t touch him in it, what fun is there in that?” Smith protests.

“Look, but don’t touch.”

“Does that make Sips a museum piece, too?” Ross asks.

“Not the only work of art I wanna fuck, ooh!”

“ _Filthy!_ ”

Sips takes the suit to the bedroom and tries it on, listening to their conversation about dinner trickle down the hall. It’s an expensive suit just to wear to work- but Sips knows how much magic Trott’s poured into this- it means a lot more than being fashionable.

It does look good. It fits well. His court tell him as much, when he shows it off. But Sips can’t help but feel...normal. Is that a good thing? While wearing something that’s as protective as armor? An iron-laced suit was...kind of like chainmail, with all the charms it had added onto it to be impervious to some extent. It was lighter than chainmail would be in real life.

But would armor have done him any good today?

Sips hangs up his suit in a garment bag at the back of their closet, and rejoins his court in the living room.

 

* * *

 

Sips crosses his arms over his chest and leans up against the kitchen counter. Smith and Ross are in the living room, watching the house-building program they like so much, while Trott slowly puts away dishes with one hand. Dinner had been falsely cheerful, and agitation and worry still hung over all of them like a cloud.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” Sips asks blatantly.

“I’m fine.”

“Not what I asked, Trott.”

Trott says nothing and finishes putting dishes away. His nails are painted a “don’t fuck with me” dark red, reminiscent of blood. As much as Sips loves Trott’s fierce brutality, literal blood on his hands would mean his court was in danger or Trott was putting himself in danger for them. He doesn’t like either option.

Sips carefully takes Trott’s unfavored hand and turns it palm upward. There’s dark bruising all across the palm. The skin along the inside of his arm is flushed pink, almost like it’s inflamed or swollen. Sips watches Trott’s face carefully, waiting for an answer.

Trott sighs and doesn’t meet his eyes. “I knew when it happened,” he says, shutting the cabinet where they keep their plates, “when you started getting hurt by the golems today. The magic that I wove through your bond retaliated to keep you safe- and I felt bolts of pain singe through my arm in exchange.”

Sips pales.

“I’ll be fine- it’ll heal,” Trott tries to reassure him, “It wasn’t anything I wasn’t prepared to deal with-”

"But that's what this thing does now?" Sips gapes. “Trott, what- what is that magic supposed to-”

Trott winces sharply as he pulls his hand away. “It’s fine, Sips.”

Oh, _bullshit_. “Trott...” Sips cups Trott’s cheek and Trott turns his head to face him. “I thought we were talking about this.”

Trott’s pained eyes stare back at him. “About what?”

“You know what. _Us!_ Trott, you said we were going to make a plan. Together. What happened to that?” He frowns.

Trott sighs and shakes his head, pulling away from Sips. “I’ve taken responsibility for that. I promised myself it would never happen again, and I'm keeping that promise-”

“ _Trott-_ ”

Trott purses his lips together into a thin line. “This has to be done. I _have_ to do this, Sips-”

“No, _you don’t!_ Fuck!” Sips snaps, voice rising.

“Do you have a better idea?” Trott mutters darkly.

“No, but this...Trott...”

Trott turns away from him and busies himself with putting away the silverware, opening the cabinet drawer loudly and sorting the forks and knives. The metal clatters loudly in the drawer organizer.

“You don’t need to do that,” Sips objects, not talking about the dishes at all.

“I do.”

 _I don’t want to see you get hurt for me._ Sips swallows thickly, looking back at Trott with grief-stricken fear in his eyes. “Does that magic do what I think it does?” he asks tersely, glancing down at Trott’s hand and back up again. He steps forward and reaches for Trott again, but the selkie pulls away.

Sips lets out a breath through his teeth, blinking heavily. “What happens, then, huh?” he whispers, “What happens if it’s you instead of me?”

Trott shoves the drawer shut hard and stares at his feet.

“Do you really think Smith and Ross wouldn’t tear the city apart in grief?” Sips asks quietly.

“We’d do the same if it was you,” Trott says, determined.

Sips stares up at the ceiling and lets out a haggard breath. “Fucking dammit, Trott.” He sighs in exasperation. “I know you care, but I don’t want you or Ross or Smith to sacrifice yourselves for me.” The mortal king shakes his head and looks back down. “You can’t fix all our problems by yourself. We’re a _court_. Whatever comes for us, we should be fighting that together.”

“You don’t know what we’re up against-”

“Then _tell me_ , for fuck’s sake!” he exclaims, “What do you know that I don’t?”

“A lot more about how this world works, Sips,” Trott says snidely.

“Why don’t you stop keeping fucking secrets, then! You can’t solve anything like that,” Sips snaps back, “And what about Angor? What about _him_? I thought we agreed to solve that together-”

“I’ll _pay for it-_ ” Trott states.

“Just like you’ll pay for trying to keep me from dying? Death isn’t the fucking answer, Trott,” he hisses.

Trott says nothing. His good hand is clenched into a fist atop the countertop.

“You have them to take care of, too,” Sips says softly, “Not just me. You have them to think of. And that should include yourself.”

Trott turns and slowly meets his eyes.

“I’m not that important. I’m not some saint or martyr, I’m just some mortal,” Sips stammers, “I don’t deserve you to die for me. _Fuck_ being king, what _worth_ is it, if you did that?” He’s shaking. His hands are clenched at his sides. He wants to move closer to Trott but he’s afraid Trott will pull away again.

Trott says nothing for a long moment, staring hard with his lips pursed into a thin line. “Let me show you something,” he says bitterly, pulling a chair out from under the dining room table and gesturing for Sips to sit down.

Sips sits, his back to Trott, and Trott covers his eyes with his hands.

The magic rushes into him, and Sips swoons with the power of it, holding on tight to the chair as if he might fall off. In the blackness, he can see the ley lines that hold every debt together, every bond between them and the rest of the world. Between fae, between humans, and between themselves.

A spiraling tendril of silver magic stretches around himself, to Trott, and Ross and Smith in the other room. Like neurons on the covers of Trott’s science magazines. Sips can see the bonds between his court as well, the murky purple of Ross and Smith, and the ocean blue of Smith and Trott. The magic pushes his vision wider, and he can see stretches of debts and power linked between them and others, stretching out into the world.

“Do you understand now?” Trott whispers, “Do you see? _Look at the lines, Sips._ ”

Staring at it makes his skin burn.

“ _There’s magic in what we do, and all those lines are interconnected,_ ” Trott continues, _“This isn’t just you, and this isn’t just me. It’s not just about keeping you safe._

_“The fall of a court is the fall of a king.”_

Sips gasps as the lines fade and the magic leaves. His head pounds when Trott pulls his hands away and light floods his vision. The kitchen slowly comes back into focus. Sips coughs harshly.

“Alright?” Trott asks, hands rubbing his shoulders comfortingly.

“Fucking _shit_ ,” Sips murmurs, clearing his throat, “You fae see that all the time?”

“No. Only a few can tap into its power. Most can only see or show for a brief moment, and it takes a lot of concentration.” Trott leans against the back of the chair, pressing a kiss to the top of Sips’ hat-covered head. He takes a deep breath and lets it out again. “Sips...you know there’s a reason why the King of Misrule ritual isn’t supposed to be permanent. That’s the same reason why kings of courts are supposed to be fae. The power is overwhelmingly complicated to hold, and mortals can’t wield it or keep it in check as easy as fae or magic users can.”

“Is that why you’re so targeted? Because of me?” Sips asks, “That’s the dumbest fucking thing, if it is.”

“There’s too many reasons for that,” Trott murmurs sadly, “We’d be targeted even if you weren’t king.”

“Shit...” Sips sighs heavily, leaning forward and putting his head in his hands. “Trott, why didn’t you tell me this before? Why didn’t you show me?” His head still aches from the magical residue.

Trott’s quiet for a moment. Sips hears him swallow thickly.

“Because the magic was nowhere near as strong when you joined as it is now,” Trott murmurs. His hands move from the back of the chair as he walks around Sips. “Because I thought if I controlled enough of it, it wouldn’t be an issue.”

Sips lifts his head to meet Trott’s eyes. “You’re a fucking idiot, for putting this all on yourself,” he says before he can reel it in.

Trott scowls. His posture straightens perceptibly, and in that moment Sips sees the selkie prince he used to be. The hilt of one of his knives glimmers at his side. “Then that’s the price I’ll pay, Sips,” he mutters darkly, “And you can’t tell me otherwise.”

Sips sighs and closes his eyes, frustrated again. That wasn’t what he meant. And he _could_ tell him otherwise, but he won’t. He never wanted all this power- he never meant to be a king.

“Trott- I just...I don’t want to see you get hurt,” he says gently.

Trott laughs, the most bitter laugh Sips has heard from him since the party with Smith’s unruly charm magic. “That’s a futile wish in a life like ours, Sips. You should know.” He leaves the kitchen. Sips hears him slam the door to his office shut. He puts his head in his hands again.

“Are we well and truly fucked? Is that it?” he asks aloud, frowning heavily. He feels like he’s young again.

 

* * *

 

There’s nothing on tv tonight. Smith lies on the couch, mindlessly watching some drag pageant show rerun, burrowed in his blanket. He can hear Ross and Sips talking just outside the apartment, and Trott puttering around in his office.

He nurses his whiskey, knowing the drinking isn’t helping, but knowing it can’t make things worse. It might make him _feel_ worse, that’s true, but he’s going to let himself be miserable about it right now. Tomorrow’s another day. Right now, today feels deserving of it.

The paper from earlier is crumpled in his pocket. He and Ross had heard the argument between Trott and Sips, and he can feel Trott’s worry for them all through the bond. There are twinges of fear he knows Trott would deny if he asked about it. It sucks to be alone right now, but Trott’s still brooding and angry, and Sips and Ross are outside.

He doesn’t want to be a bother.

Smith sighs and pulls his blanket tighter around himself. If he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, he can almost pretend he’s by the river, all those years ago. It had been so nice to get away from the city last weekend...he appreciates it more now that they’ve returned.

The show goes to commercials, and Smith opens his eyes again. The street lights cast shadows through the window curtains. Ross and Sips’ voices are too quiet to understand what they’re saying.

Smith can feel the call to go out. He should go blow some steam off. Have another drink, or two, or three. But there’s a lot keeping him here- his current glass of whiskey, Trott’s rule against going out alone, Ross and Sips just outside the door...and his desire not to ruin all he holds close. Not again. That was his own promise he had to keep.

He doesn’t really want to be alone right now. It aches that he is, aches so deep, but Smith just drinks his whiskey. It doesn’t help.

Smith hears the closet in Trott’s office open and shut, and rubs his eyes. He could just go to bed- but not when things felt disjointed like this. Not when the sheets would be cold.

 _Isn’t it poignant,_ he thinks with a chuckle, _that you’re the one waiting up now._

Smith glances over his shoulder, and his eyes land on the thin cracks in the wall. He scowls and turns back around, finishing the rest of his whiskey and huddling into the corner of the couch. He hides his face in his blanket. If he hadn't been so stupid, hadn’t become obsessed with the worst parts of himself, hadn’t gone to outside sources to solve his own issues, none of this would have happened. Would it? If he hadn’t lost control at the party, they wouldn’t have lost the magic that night. They wouldn’t have been vulnerable enough for their threshold, and Sips, to get attacked.

But maybe it would have happened, anyway.

Smith tries to tell himself that all this isn’t his fault. It’s none of their faults- not Trott’s either, especially. But not his. _What you are isn’t the problem,_ he tells himself.

But was it?

Fuck, he really shouldn’t have been drinking.

Smith rubs at his face with his hand, wondering why his cheeks are wet. He shoves his hand under the blanket, to the pocket of his jeans, and has to forcibly restrain himself from grabbing his keys. He takes out the paper he’d gotten earlier and unfolds it again, rereading the court summons and the date on the back. If he doesn’t show up, Angor will come for him.

But he can’t just turn himself in. He knows what he’s done, but he can’t...he can’t face that.

 _What a coward,_ he thinks, but no, that’s not it at all. If those against him want to harm him, try him, catch him, whatever- they’re going to have to put up a fight.

Smith takes out his lighter and sparks it alight. He slowly burns the summons away, blowing out the fire bit by bit and watching the paper blacken to ash, until it’s nothing but cinders.

It’s fitting- burning the last of the bridges he’s built and destroyed. Angor’s court summons is the last of his issues coming back to haunt him. He knows when to expect it all to come crashing down. And maybe it’s selfish of him, to want his court on his side when it does. But he can’t willingly turn himself in. Unless Angor threatens one of his court, Smith’s not stepping a foot near the courtroom.

He’s doomed, anyway. Might as well go out in a blaze of fury.

 

* * *

 

Sips smokes out on the stoop outside the apartment, just behind the thin magical barrier Trott laid around the perimeter temporarily as a warning if anything unwanted got close. The orange dot of his cigarette is the only light in the rising dark. It’s the third he’s had today. He’s too keyed up to drink, too keyed up to sleep. He’ll smoke ‘til sunrise if exhaustion’ll let him.

Ross sits beside him in silence, thinking, with his knees pulled to his chest. Sips knows Ross and Smith had heard him and Trott fighting. He figures Smith is watching tv or something, by the sound of it. And Trott’s still shut in his office.

"What do you know of angels, Ross?" he asks aloud.

“They're...supposed to be guardians. Holy warriors who have otherworldly power to bestow God's command,” Ross answers, “Why do you ask?”

Sips shrugs. “I don’t know. Curious, I guess.” He takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales the smoke in a stream of gray. “At first I wasn't sure if I believed in angels. When I was a kid, it was as much a truth as the Lord's word was. My mother collected tchotchkes and paintings of them like it was going out of style. But as I got older, I thought less things were miracles, with all the dark things in the world I saw.” A moth flutters in the corner of the roof above him, and Sips shakes his head. “Life isn't as simple as that, though.”

“Do you believe in angels now?”

“I dunno,” Sips says thoughtfully, “There are things in my life I can't quite explain. Not sure if that's angels, magic, or just my senile old brain finally breaking.”

Ross snorts. “You're not that old.”

“Yeah, says _you_.” Sips cracks a smile. He taps the ash off the end of his cigarette and watches the end of the filter burn in the darkness. “Have you three met Angor before?” he asks, raising the cigarette to his lips again.

“Once. Not long after you were crowned.” Ross chews his lip.

“In trouble with him?”

Ross nods. His picks holes and pits in the concrete stoop with his tail. “Trott hid it from us for a while.”

“He tends to do that,” Sips murmurs.

“I understand why he does it...but I don’t like it when he does.” Ross sighs. “Anyway. Smith and I were out with you the first time Angor met up with Trott.”

“I bet that conversation was peachy.”

“Trott was furious.”

Sips hums. He takes another drag of his cigarette.

Ross flicks a pebble off the stoop, watching it skitter off into the dry grass past the sidewalk. "Angor tried to arrest us for screwing up the King of Misrule ritual. He threatened Trott, and later that month, caught Trott and I in an alley, leaving a shop. Made a really big deal about broken magical contracts. But there's technically nowhere in the ritual that says there has to be a death, only blood sacrifice."

“Trott conned him out of it, then.”

“Sort of. Traded magic for the so-called debt. That’s why we had a lot of parties back then, to gain back what got traded away.”

Sips blows out a long stream of smoke into the air above him. The moth flutters and knocks against the underside of the roof to try to squirm away. “Why’s everyone so fucking scared of him, Ross? I don’t get it.”

Ross shrugs. “He’s...intimidating. He’s one of the few people in the city who holds a lot of power but doesn’t belong to a court.”

“Thought he worked for the horned bastard.”

“I guess? I don’t know how much they really interact. He doesn’t control Angor, though. No one does. Not even God.”

“Not even God?”

Ross doesn’t say anymore on that thought. It’s strange, since he isn’t afraid to talk about religion when it’s been brought up before. Sips watches him smooth the pits in the concrete with his hand, repairing it. He turns over the facts he has in his mind, from Trott, from Ross, from Turps. In the distance, he can hear the sound of a train chugging over the tracks.

“Was that all he did? Threaten you two?” he asks.

Ross is silent. He seems bothered by something, face strangely dull of any emotion.  
Sips watches him for a long moment, until he sees Ross blink and take in a breath.

“I don’t often feel powerless, when we run into trouble...” Ross starts, speaking slowly, “Not with my strength and the metal bat I carry. But dealing with him...” The gargoyle shakes his head. “Archangels have power that I’ll never be able to comprehend.”

Sips sighs and stubs his cigarette out on the concrete. “Whatever he is, he’s no fuckin’ saint I’ll praise.”

“What he does is not saintly work at all.” There’s anger and fear in Ross’ voice.

Sips watches him carefully. “What’d he do?” He doesn’t want to press Ross on what happened...but he has to know.

“He froze me in place,” Ross says quietly, “He can manipulate and screw with the magic that makes me animate. He made it look like I was seeing the church instead of the alley Trott and I were in. I could hear what was going on, but I couldn’t move or see. I was trapped until he got what he wanted out of Trott, and then he unfroze me.”

“What a fucking asshole.” Sips is surprised at how is voice shakes with anger. He wants another cigarette, and fumbles for the pack at his side.

“Yeah...it was...horrible,” Ross sighs, curling his arms around his knees again, “He’s powerful, and I don’t think anyone could stop him if they wanted to. There are...rumors about what he's done to people. No one knows if it's true. Angor doesn't kill the accused, but he doesn't always let them live, either.”

The swirl of information inside Sips’ head makes him sick.

“I don’t know what Angor has planned,” Ross continues, “but I’m terrified for Smith.”

Sips scoots closer to Ross, and puts an arm around his shoulders. Ross is solid and warm, but Sips aches for the rest of his court beside him. He sighs heavily and leans his head against Ross’. “I am, too, Ross,” he admits, “I am, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you’re wondering what Smith’s “court summons” said:  
> https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2016/10/31/magical-law-court-summons
> 
> thoughts about Sips and his role:  
> https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2016/10/31/thoughts-on-the-mortal-king/
> 
> Trott and Sips spa day:  
> http://garbagecourtfuzzies.tumblr.com/post/131324364289/consider-this  
> http://garbagecourtfuzzies.tumblr.com/post/131388408944/warm-and-lazy-trips-bath-smooches-make-me-picture  
> http://garbagecourtfuzzies.tumblr.com/post/131389556819/after-gatsbys-message-there-all-i-can-think-of  
> http://garbagecourtfuzzies.tumblr.com/post/131389980034/what-color-polish-do-you-think-is-sips-fav
> 
> http://www.thewilbournegroup.com/  
> paddles
> 
> Sips’ suit jacket:  
> http://www.lyst.com/clothing/asos-slim-fit-suit-jacket-in-fleck-black/?reason=related-product
> 
> Sips didn’t know how much of a Big Deal him being king was. He doesn’t fear death. He fears his court dying for him. But the likelihood of that doesn’t hit him until the bond lashes out. So when he’s talking to Trott, he’s flabbergasted that Trott’s really put Sips’ life before his own. Sips is angry/upset about that- he knows his court will do anything to keep him safe.  
> Things aren't as safe as Trott led them to believe. He's been hiding that- the idea that they have a false sense of security- any deal gone wrong, Trott’s hidden under the rug. They aren’t being hunted or persecuted, but they’re not as safe as it seems to be.


End file.
